I wasn't a good man.

I didn't grow up with the wrong crowd or falling with bad influences.

I made my choices.

When the trial ended, the judge said I was the most calculated man he'd ever sentenced,

and granted me life without parole.

No visitors, no possibility of release.

They buried me.

And that was that.

Until she came along.

That day, guards pulled me out to my cell without a word.

Two stayed at my sides, two more behind. We passed through corridors

where walls sweated under fluorescent lights. Doors slid open ahead of us after keycard scans.

Eventually, we stopped at a reinforced door. One of the guards stepped forward and unlocked it

without speaking. Cold air drifted out

into the hallway. Inside was a table bolted to the floor and two chairs, one empty, one occupied.

Her eyes were already locked on mind before I sat down.

She wore a grey suit with a faint pinstripe pattern, hair pulled tight against her head, skin pale but without blemishes.

The guards forced me into the chair across from her, wrists shackled to the ring at the center of the table.

She didn't introduce herself.

Do you want to rot here until your skin comes off your bones?

She asked.

Or do you want a chance?

...